Wandfasted. Laurie Forest
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Brandon as my stomach gives a sickening lurch, suddenly aware of how much danger we’re in. I have to get home to Grandfather and Wren. I have to get them to safety right now. And I have to get hold of Grandfather’s wand so I can use what magic I have to protect them.
“Come along, Edgard,” Mistress Darrow slyly purrs to her husband, a vengeful gleam in her eye. She takes in the restless crowd on the street, Brandon and his cohorts—and me, conspicuously unarmed, unprotected. “Leave the girl,” she directs as Merchant Darrow hesitates, a worried expression on his face. “Let the young men take care of the Crows.”
My throat goes dry and tight. “Please, Merchant Darrow,” I plead. “You’ve always been fair to us.”
Merchant Darrow glances toward the young men, then back at me, obviously torn, a hard crease between his eyes.
Another mob of men streams by the windows, brandishing knives and swords. Some are on horseback, riding toward my home downriver.
My panic crests as I turn back to see Merchant Darrow and his wife quietly slipping into the back of the shop, a heavy curtain falling shut behind them.
Emboldened, piggish Colton licks at his lip, splotches of red coloring his cheeks as he stares at my body. “Should we find out what’s under all that black?”
“Leave me alone, Colton,” I demand, backing up as far as I can, my skirts pressing against a grain barrel.
“‘Leave me alone, Colton,’” he jeers, his tone a high-pitched mockery of mine that sets Brandon laughing.
Gerrig snorts in derision, his smile excited. “Think they’re holier than us. That they’re the true First Children.”
“You too good for us?” Brandon chides, eyeing me smugly. “That why you go ’round with your nose stuck high in the air?”
“Stop it, Brandon,” I seethe, glaring at him. If I only had a wand.
“Or what?” Brandon taunts, stalking closer. “You’ll wave a magic stick at us? You don’t have any idea what’s coming, do you?”
“That’s enough,” I insist, my heart pounding. “I have to leave.” I step around him, but his muscular arm swings out to catch me.
“Not so fast, little witch.”
Growing desperate, I slip away from his grasp and try to go around his other side.
Laughing along with his friends, Brandon grabs me and jerks me roughly backward.
Infuriated, I wrench myself around and slam the base of my palm hard up against his nose, the pain of impact knifing up my arm.
He stumbles back in surprise, his hand flying up to his nose, blood seeping through his fingers. I glare at him fiercely.
Brandon’s eyes narrow, but before I can bolt for the door, he rushes forward and smacks me hard across the face.
Shocked, I stagger and lose my footing, falling to the floor. Brandon stalks toward me as I scuttle away from him, dizzy from the blow.
The door to the Guildmarket creaks open.
“Hit her again, and I will split your head, Brandon. I swear I will.”
Brandon stops, his fist clenched midair.
Jules Kristian is standing in the doorway, pointing an arrow straight at Brandon’s head.
Tall, skinny Jules. My Kelt neighbor. His glasses are askew, his hair is its usual brown, tousled mess and he’s not wearing a flag. He looks like one of them, dressed in an earth-toned tunic and pants. But he’s nothing like them—he always makes up his own mind rather than following the crowd.
And he’s made the very bad decision to be friends with me.
Brandon and the others stand frozen, as if stunned that bookish Jules has it in him to defy them.
Filled with relief, I seize the chance Jules has given me. I burst through a gap between Brandon and Gerrig, dive around Jules and fly out the front door, almost losing my footing on the wooden steps.
I skid to a halt at the sight that lies before me, my stomach clenching into a tight vise.
At the center of the five-point intersection, just off to the side of the village’s central, raised dais, a wagon has come to a stop. An angry mob of Kelts surrounds it, their collective voices rising. The wagon is jammed full of black-clad Gardnerians with dark hair and green eyes.
I know them all.
Before anyone in the crowd can see me, I dive behind a stack of grain barrels and peer through the gaps, my heart hammering. The streets are packed, and I can see no obvious route of escape. But if I can’t get out of here, I’ll end up in that the wagon with the rest of my Gardnerian neighbors.
Mage Krell, the mild-mannered cooper, stands against the wagon’s edge and blinks, gazing vacantly at the crowd as the mob rocks the wagon and hurls insults. His glasses are gone, and a large bruise colors the side of his face. Years ago, he made me a small set of wooden animals that were so tiny, I could hold them all in the palm of my hand. His elderly wife clings to him, white strands of her hair flying around like unworked wool, her eyes wide and terrified. Mage Cooke, the quiet widow who scrapes by selling herbs and teas, is cowering, her arm raised protectively in front of her face. Young, sour Rolland is shaking his fist and stupidly yelling back at the crowd. He falls back as a large rock hits him square in the head. Mage Cooke ducks and cries out, her hands flying up to her face as more rocks are hurled at the wagon. When she lifts her head again, blood is streaming down her temple.
The voices swell as a young blonde Keltic woman is dragged onto the central dais by the village smith and his strapping son, Orik. Her head is shorn, and there’s a sign around her neck that reads CROW WHORE. My heart lurches into my throat as I realize it’s meek Daisie, the smith’s own daughter. She struggles in vain as they thrust her into the wagon with the Gardnerians. A limp, black-clad Gardnerian youth is dragged up next—quiet Gramm, who’s been sweet on Daisie for years, his face bloodied, his sign reading FILTHY CROW. I lose sight of him as the miller hurls him off the dais and into the bloodthirsty crowd, their voices surging.
The sea of voices is one loud blur, but some of their rage-filled words sound out clearly.
“Kill the Mages before they kill us!”
“Keltania for Kelts!”
“Smash the Roaches!”
“Kill him!”
“There’s another one! Hidin’ back here!”
I cry out as a large hand clamps down on my arm and I’m wrenched out into the open, the nearest edge of the crowd turning to face me in a sickening, murderous wave.
Terror stabs through me, filling me with feral desperation.
I stomp and claw at my attacker, struggling to free my arm. My other arm is grabbed tight by another man, stretching me out between them. I kick and twist wildly in a futile effort to break free.
Then an ear-shattering shriek rends the air, and the entire crowd gasps and ducks. The hands restraining me fall away, and I almost stumble to the ground.
I flinch as a mammoth black dragon bursts into view overhead and thunders across the sky.
There’s another collective ducking-down as a series of shrieks echoes out from above. Two more dragons slice through the clouds, their dark wings expansive. The dragons are ghoulishly skeletal, their wings covered with sharp feathers. They push air down onto us in a heavy stream that blows my hair flat against my scalp. A foul stench washes over me, like rotted carrion set on fire.
A cheer goes up from the crowd.
My gaze is torn from the sky as another